An Englishman in New England

An Englishman in New England

Work like no-one's watching, dance like you don't need the money, and hurt like you've never been loved.

All About The Englishman


Be informed
Be entertained
Be perverted
Confess, sinner
Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.
Change your perceptions. They're lame.
I have a dream.
I am Jack's imaginary friend
Don't think. Just Grow.
For all your multimedia needs
Rehabilitating Mr. Wiggles
Filthy Lies
Hey! You make me throw up a little!
The Framley Examiner Personals
From the creator of 'Grow'
Fura Neko games!
This man is everything I hope to be, artistically
Tokyo Plastic 2.0h!

I love free speech. Talk to me.


December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
December 2004
March 2005


Belle De Jour
C h a p e l . P e r i l o u s
Another Girl, Another Planet
Robber Rabbit

currently. . .

[Playing] Oh, holy Halo 2, Xbox
[Reading] War of the Worlds
[Songs of the Moment] Freelove Freeway, Ricky Gervais/David Brent & Noel Gallagher (The Office), Let Me Love You, Mario
[Movie(s) of the Moment] Before Sunset

highlight reel

Pussy Perspectives
The Laid List
Liquored Up and Lookin' Fer Pussy
Orphan Rampage
The Office and David Carradine
Urkel's Calling
A Wee Turtle's Head
Non-Event Horizon
The Illusion of Time
Born To Run
Bush Humor
Fiendster: The Anti-Friendster
Crusoe and the INS
Peak Oil
Smile for me, Mona
Spin the bullet bachelor party
Spin the bullet part II
Heaven and Home
Heal the world

Atom Feed me, Seymour

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Thursday, April 29

A Wee Turtle's Head

Messages come to us in the strangest of ways. They float through the ether, searching for the right medium to be recieved, and always seem to arrive at just the right time. Flicking on to just the right bit of dialogue on TV, a book falling open to just the right part of the right chapter, overhearing the right part of a conversation on the train - most of what we encounter in these situations is just so much noise, but hey, even spam has to resonate with someone out there.

The catch is that you have to pay attention, which does take effort. Remember this when you find me huddled down in the bushes underneath your living room window with an ear-horn. Don't mind me - just looking for messages, that's me. Doo tee doo. I'll be off, then if that's how you feel about it. No, no, there's no need to call them, I'll leave. No, I'm not on that registry - yes it's the same name, but it's a completely different person. She told me she was 19!

My most recent message was of the overheard-convo-on-the-train variety. See, my pseudo-jobless marathon has given me a lot of time to ruminate on what kind of legacy I'd like to leave to the world. You know, besides several tonnes of pollutants in the atmosphere, a small Starbucks cup-shaped contribution to some landfill project, and a few gainfully-employed sweatshop children. We in the Western world all seem to manage that without trying, and ideally I'd like to produce something more with the fleeting quantum energy allotted to me, before I croak in an entropic return to chaos.

Having just concluded a rather enjoyable project helping a friend with his senior engineering thesis, and hearing the appreciation of my work, (actual quote "Ah, Jesus - I think I just shit myself. How much is he paying you again?"), I was wondering if maybe I should quit waiting to be involved in some radioactive spider biting/wife and family's murder by mobsters avenging/contact with turtles and a mutagenic substance incident preceding my debut in the crimefighting industry, and instead answer my calling as a graphic designer.

Mulling this over on the train yesterday, I overheard a conversation by some annoying type waffling on about something of huge significance to himself and pretty much noone else. Like I said before, just so much noise, however my ears perked up when he inadvertantly schlepped into my sphere of giving a fuck and mentioned that he used to be a graphic designer, but didn't enjoy spending so much time in front of a computer.

I'm ruminating upon this little revelation - it doesn't appear to be a deal-breaker, although I would like an occupation that doesn't preclude the lifegiving rays of our Sun in the line of duty once in a while. Perhaps I've found the perfect cover for the newest crimefighting vigilante, who is a borderline psychotically-mannered graphic designer by day and at night is the masked hero known only as. . .

The Englishman.

Now where can one find the nearest vat of mutagen and a turtle?